


Bowersville

by Corvid_Knight, NKMLN



Series: Demonstuck [24]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: BIG OOF, Demonstuck, Divination, M/M, Near Death Experience, additional backstory for jake, v v angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKMLN/pseuds/NKMLN
Summary: A job in a tiny town in Colorado brings memories of the last time Jake was here to mind. They're not very good ones.





	Bowersville

**_Now:_ **

Dirk's hunched over at the kitchen table when you walk in, absorbed in whatever document he's adding to. Your half-awake brain identifies that as a fully normal and fine thing for him to be doing, for a moment.

Then the sensible portion kicks in, pointing out that it's two in the morning. "Love?"

He jumps half a mile out of his seat at the sound of your voice, slamming the computer shut fast enough that you worry about the integrity of the screen. It's almost funny, but then again, everything seems a bit cockeyed this early.

"Jake. Hi." Dirk's tone is halfway between tired-flat and anxious-flat; either way, there's not much emotion to read in it. Hm. "Why the hell are you awake."

"I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart." The answer is actually simple, for you—you woke up thirsty enough to know you'd not sleep again without water, you got up to fetch it without really waking up. There's nothing to conceal on your end of the situation.

Given the way Dirk's still not taken his hand off the laptop, like he wants to block you from even thinking of touching it, he might not be able to say the same.

"Is everything all right?" you ask, pulling out another chair to sit beside him. Not _directly_ beside, though—no need to make him more upset by crowding him. He'll tell you without your spying.

"Yeah." The answer's too quick. He doesn't meet your eyes. "Yeah, everything's...just fine. I'll come to bed in a minute, just—just let me finish this first."

"Mhm." Drinking from the glass of water that Dirk's got on the table for himself is probably not the wisest thing, but then again you're fairly sure that you already have all the germs you might pick up from his mouth. And you're thirsty. And you refuse to get up and walk away from him. And the pause that this inserts gives him time to relax before your next question. "What're you working on there, anyway?"

It's not bright, in this room. Dirk's obviously been working mostly by the light of his computer, and since he's shut it even that's gone, leaving nothing but dim moonlight from the window. Still, you see the way he tenses at the question, how much he doesn't want to answer.

"Love, whatever it is—"

"We got a call from Bowersville." The words fall from his mouth into the dark like stones into deep water. "Earlier. They called John, he—"

"Gave you the phone." That's how it works, John's job isn't to finish settling details and he would've been too shaken up to handle anything beyond the initial contact, of course he turned it over to your poor love.

Gods, you wish they'd called literally any of the others.

"Yeah. They've got—fuck, Jake, I don't remember, I've been on autopilot for four fucking hours—"

"Shush. Come here." You scootch your chair over, reach for him, and Dirk lets you pull him into your arms as unquestioningly as he'd take your hand. "It's okay, love."

"I'm not taking you back there," he whispers, even that small sound rough with what you know is fear just barely suppressed. Understandable fear. Justifiable fear.

You tilt your head to kiss him gently, in the dull moonlight, but you don't tell him that you don't need to be taken.

* * *

**_Then:_ **

Bowersville, Colorado, can be described as "Literal Nowhere" if you don't look carefully. It's not tiny, really, but irritatingly spread out; John instantly starts providing more names for it (ranging from descriptive to obscene) as Dirk tries to navigate the sprawl of empty backroads.

Honestly, Dirk's probably the only one paying attention at this point; Hal's in the backseat with Dave and Karkat, steadfastly ignoring the fact that the latter two are curled closer around each other than can be considered normally possible, and D's long since lost interest in anything other than whichever paramour he's texting at the moment. From the way he smiles, you hope that he keeps this one.

You feel like you should be paying at least some attention to either John's jokes or Dirk's driving, but all you feel capable of doing is staring out the window, watching the mountains go by and shivering miserably. Why the hell does no one else have a problem with the van being so damnably _cold_? This is what you get for assuming that Colorado couldn't be that much colder than Texas in the summer; you should have dressed warmer. You should have reminded Dirk to dress warmer too; he's worse at handling low temperatures than you are, even if he doesn't show it...

All right, this is ridiculous.

"John, turn up the heat for me?" Damn. That came out snappier than you meant it to, especially since you obviously just cut off another of his jokes about the number of people who live in Bowersville.

Actually, the way he's staring at you might be confusion rather than irritation. "Up?"

"Yes, up. Of course up." You huff out a breath and wrap your arms around your chest, trying to at least conserve what body heat you have. "I'm—it's freezing, can't you—"

Reflected in the rearview mirror, you see Dirk frown, and both he and John glance at the dash to check the temperature. Then John half-turns in his seat to look over at you, really look, and you see his eyes widen as you turn your head a bit to face him.

"Dirk—" John starts, and then stops talking, reaching out to lay one hand on your cheek in a gesture you'd expect from Dirk, not him.

His skin's cool. Somehow, it feels like a relief to have that coolness there on your face, enough that you sigh and lean into the touch despite the fact that you're already shivering.

"Oh shit you're hot," John says, more to Dirk than to you, and pulls his hand back. You want to _cry_ at the loss of contact. "Dirk, he's sick, he's got a fever and his eyes—"

"There's a hospital about two miles back the other way," Hal volunteers from the backseat. "Less, if you actually listen to me this time."

Dirk just grunts instead of answering that with an insult of his own, and that's probably what starts the first trickle of alarm filtering in past your current discomfort.

D looks up, dropping his phone in his lap. "Wait, shit, hospital?"

"Jake's sick," John says, when Dirk doesn't answer. "Like. Actually sick."

"Ah, shit, seriously?"

Oh, and there's guilt along with the misery and the worry. Lovely. You close your eyes and sink down a bit in your seat, wondering where the hell you could've picked up a bug as you mutter a halfhearted, "Sorry," at everyone in the vehicle.

Dirk's the only one who answers, possibly because he knows he's the only one you'll listen to. "Not your fault, babe. Hey."

When he takes his hand back off the wheel to reach back for you, you take his hand and squeeze it hard, like doing that can leach some of the soothing coolness from his touch. That doesn't work, of course, but for a moment he meets your eyes in the rearview, and you know he really doesn't blame you.

Then you let him go, lean back in your seat, and go back to shivering and watching the mountains.

* * *

**_Now:_ **

Hal's the one driving, this time, partly because it's faster this way and partly because you insisted that Dirk sit in the seat beside you, where you could lace your fingers through his, where you didn't have to have the barrier of the mirror between him and you. It's more for him than for you, even though you'd never tell him that.

He bears down hard on your hand when Hal turns the key off, though, enough that you sigh and pull his hand up, untangle his fingers from yours and press a gentle kiss to his palm.

(It's warm, now. This time. All is well.)

(Gods, that's a lie. Nothing's well, not in this fucking place.)

"I'm fine," you tell him.

"Jake—"

"All we have to do is our job. The sooner we start, the sooner we leave, right? It'll be fine."

There's a moment of hesitation, and even though Hal or John could get out of the van, go in to check the five of you in, no one moves. It's Dirk's right to make a decision here, You suppose, but you think you know what he'll do.

And he proves you right, because after that moment he leans in to kiss your cheek, and then he's out of the van and heading inside to go inform whoever's running the check-in counter this time that their least favorite hunters have arrived.

As soon as he's gone, John slumps down in his seat. "Bowersville," he mutters. "The town of postcards and _literally_ nothing else."

"Oh I don't know John, there's quite a nice cave on the edge of town," you joke. The way that your own flippancy makes the old ache fade a bit is worth D's squawk of horror, and the softly concerned sound Grey makes.

John goes stiff for maybe half a second, then swats at your arm too fast to dodge. "Don't you _dare_ ," he hisses, and you can't tell if he's joking back.

You nod without even thinking about it. Best to not rock the boat; John's just as on edge as Dirk is.

It was a good joke, though.

* * *

**_Then:_ **

You fall asleep with your head against the window, you think. Maybe you almost feel Dirk lift you, carry you away from the van and to somewhere else, but it's dim and hazy and very far away.

The dream isn't far away. The dream is _real._

 _Oh, Page._ It's just an echo of a whisper of a voice you've never heard, bouncing around the walls of this cave. The echoes start little ripples on the shallow, luminous water that covers the floor, spark brighter lights in the shimmering crystals that cling to the wall like some sort of small, sedentary animals.

It's lovely. It's calm. It's safe.

The wailing you can just barely hear from somewhere far in the distance doesn't mean anything. Right?

_Be strong, Page._

You want to ask whatever's speaking to you what it means by that, but this dream is already fading into something darker. You'll never remember the darker dreams, not really, but you'll remember the cave. You'll always remember the cave.

You'll remember the cave, and you'll remember waking up days later in the hospital bed.

* * *

**_Now:_ **

The hotel doesn't make a fuss over the fact that Dirk demands a single room with only one bed for himself, you, and John. Or maybe they do, but he overrides it. Your boyfriend can be like that when he needs to.

Either way, you end up nestled close to Dirk, feigning sleep well enough that you know he believes it. John believes you're asleep as well; you felt him reach over Dirk a moment ago, his hand brushing gently across your chest to check again for the movement of your breathing.

You could have told him he didn't need to check. Dirk's had one hand loosely wrapped around your wrist since you lay down with him, not just checking your heartbeat but monitoring it. Gods, he's still so afraid.

You're not afraid. You just can't sleep. Maybe if you could do a reading you'd be able to, but...no. Not here. They won't let you, the clerk wouldn't even sign you in until you swore that you'd left your cards and your pendulum and every other divinatory medium she could think of behind. It's such a taboo in Bowersville now, worse than murder.

They're trying to save lives, you know. And you know that it won't matter, because the power is in _you,_ not in your instruments. You could as easily read what's coming from the deck of playing cards on the bedside table as you might from the tarot cards that you left in the van.

You won't. You can't. All you can do is lie here in Dirk's arms, listen to him and John breathe, and think about things. D's brother, the tears on Rose's face as she asked you if you were _sure_ , a text message with a code that would shut Hal down...anything but what happened a year ago. Anything but Bowersville.

"Are you actually okay?" John whispers from Dirk's other side, and you don't react because you know he doesn't mean you. He'd ask if you were awake, not okay. They all know you're not okay.

Dirk shifts a bit, though, rolling over onto his back. His hand doesn't leave your wrist. "Yeah," he murmurs, and even that one word sounds like a lie. "I'm fine, I just...I want to get out. Now. As far away from this fucking place as we can get, I want to leave, I don't want—"

That last word is almost choked, and Dirk stops as John shushes him. You feel weight shift on that side of the mattress, and Dirk's breath catches for a moment; John's kissed him.

You stay limp. You stay quiet. You listen.

"We almost lost him." Dirk's voice goes not just soft but breeze-thin, more fragile than you can bear hearing from him; you can't help but shift ever-so-slightly towards him, and he rolls back towards you, one hand coming up to card through your hair, soothe you back into what he assumes is sleep. "He almost—I can't do that again. I _can't._ "

As John whispers reassurances to him, you breathe deep and try to convince yourself that it'll be okay.

* * *

**_Then:_ **

You can barely walk, when they release you from the hospital. No, that's a lie—you can't walk, not really, not even the short distance from the building to the van.

You still try.

The only reason you don't crack your skull open is that Dirk catches you. He's making those tiny stifled noises that means he wants to sob, as he pulls your arm over his shoulders and leans down to get you in a bridal carry, and oh god you need to see his face, you need to see his eyes, you need to wipe his tears away but you are so goddamn weak that all you can do is lean your head against his chest and close your eyes.

John's the one in the driver's seat. Dirk won't let you go; he settles into the backseat with you on his lap, stroking through your hair and whispering about how brave you were, how much he loves you.

It _hurts._ You weren't brave. Brave would mean you knew what was happening, that you had a choice, and the thing inside you (the power that's abruptly, terrifyingly _absent_ ) made sure that you knew nothing. You suppose that would've been a mercy, if things turned out just a bit different.

You suppose that not knowing was better for Elise.

"Dirk," you whisper as John starts the van, hoping that you're loud enough to be heard, "I want to go to the cave."

* * *

Your abilities are yours. They always have been; you learn new ways to tell what's coming or what's gone before, but in the end any kind of divination you perform is simply an outward expression of the powers within you. You're the magic; the cards and whatever else you use are just...tools.

To the power ( _the creature_ ) inside you, you're just a tool. Or maybe not a tool—something more. A host. A vessel.

A _vessel._ One of many. Once there were a few more.

Perhaps it's found more vessels by now, though. Replaced the ones that were lost. That's the horrible thing, perhaps; you're replaceable, as Elise was replaceable.

You're still not sure why the fever killed her, and not you. Did the thing that inhabited her, that inhabits you and the pool and all the other places and artifacts and people that you're somehow connected to—did it just use her to bleed off more of its pain? Did it think she was less valuable? Did you simply come too late to bear enough of the pain that she'd have made it through alive too?

Maybe you were just...stronger.

No.

You were just lucky.

* * *

Dirk relays your whispered instructions, and even though he tells you later that even Hal couldn't find the cave without a dozen wrong turns and confused circles, you direct them to the place without an error. It's not your powers guiding you, though. Those are still painfully silent.

If you weren't so tired, you'd worry about the void they leave.

Dirk carries you into the dark hole in the side of the cliff. It's dark almost immediately, and you know that if he falls you'll both be hurt, but you know he won't. No premonitions here, just trust.

He walks for a long while before you see the light of the pool. When you do, you make him put you down, let you walk. You still need to lean on him, and by the time you fall to your knees at the edge of the pool he's almost dragging you, but this place would not permit you to be carried in.

"Jake—"

He's seen the body.

"I'm...fine. Go." It's only a few steps, after all. He'll not be out of sight of you.

When he steps away to examine the already-rotting pile of flesh and bones, you close your eyes and lean forward to put your hands in the water.

It's warm. Like something alive. Which makes sense, doesn't it? It _is_ alive. Alive enough to kill Elise, to almost kill you.

 _She was twenty-seven,_ you mouth. You don't dare say anything out loud; Dirk will hear. He doesn't even know you know about the other seer who died minutes before you woke. About the other _vessel_ , the one who broke. _Her name was Elise Mckenny, and she moved here because she loved the high places._

You can't imagine anyone moving to Bowersville.

_I know you hear me._

You don't know that. You don't know anything. You're tired, and you hurt, and your powers are gone.

 _You killed the hunter that hurt you._ Something—one of the weirdly smooth lizards that slithered away from Dirk's feet as he brought you here—brushes against your hands, quick and cold and clammy and almost immediately gone. _I know you remember._

"Fuck," Dirk mutters from over by the corpse. It's loud in this quiet place, and the sound of ripping cloth that follows is even louder.

 _You remember._ You're shaking, now, maybe from the effort of holding yourself up and maybe from the effort of not making a sound as you silently frame the words. _Remember Elise, you bastard. Please._

Sound slips out of you with that last unspoken word, but it's just a sob rather than anything coherent. It's still more than enough to catch Dirk's attention, which is fortunate; he scoops you up off the floor right before your arms give out, reaching up to wipe away the tears streaming down your face.

"Shit, Jake—"

"Home." It's the only word you can force out, and even that hurts.

Dirk kisses your forehead and turns away from the pool, takes the first steps back into the darkness. You close your eyes before you can wish that you could stay in this faint light.

* * *

**_Now:_ **

The hunt is fine, just a small matter of performing an exorcism on a teenager possessed with the sort of demon that doesn't have much power beyond dwelling in another. A thirteen-year-old with internet access, a permanent marker, and a lighter could've taken care of this.

You don't have a part in the ritual. All you do is sit there with your fingers itching for your cards, pretending that Hal isn't watching you like a hawk. Pretending that Dirk didn't make him promise to keep you from doing a reading here.

It's stupid. You don't say as much.

When Dirk steps back to let D talk to the weeping girl, you follow him out to the car before saying anything.

"Dirk."

"Yeah."

"I've got somewhere to be for a bit. Can you pick me up on the way out?"

He goes fully, painfully tense in an instant, but it doesn't show in his voice. "Where're you going?"

"Nowhere." _Not to the cave._ "I just need to drop something off for someone." True, technically. Although you don't know if she'll even know you're leaving it. "I'll be done before you're done here." Also true, but he's biting his lip, and if he says no you'll heed him, but— "Dirk, _please._ "

His shoulders slump, and he sighs, and he nods, and you pull him around and pull him close to kiss him, gentle and soft.

"Be careful," he whispers when you break the kiss, and you nod and pull him close enough to bury your face in his neck, kiss the scars there.

"I'm not going anywhere," you tell him. "It's okay."

Dirk nods again, but he still holds you tight for what seems like forever.

* * *

**_Then:_ **

The thing in your head is silent for nearly three months, long enough that you wonder if it's gone. You learn to live without it.

That doesn't mean you're okay with it being gone. But you tell yourself you are, and that's enough until the day when something _clicks_ back into place, one part slotting back into another and filling a void that you didn't even know was still there.

Afterwards you don't remember anything but that first shining moment of relief. Dave has a video, though, of you on the bathroom floor with your legs crumpled under you and tears dripping down your face and onto the tarot spread in front of you. The look on your face is that of someone who's just been released from a very dark cell, someone who's only now remembered what the light is.

If the thing in your head has any memory of what happened, it doesn't let you know. Dirk and the others seem to have forgotten too, even though you know they haven't.

Bowersville happened. You kept moving. You couldn't do anything else.

* * *

**_Now:_ **

Some of the graves have monuments. Many have flowers, or stuffed animals, or other tokens of remembrance. The one the pendulum you've brought with you leads you to has nothing but a plain stone with her name and the dates that spanned her life.

Maybe the holy place remembers her, but this town has done its best to forget.

"Hello, Elise." The card you drew last from the reading you did before you left is still in your back pocket; you retrieve it and lay it on the stone, putting the little jade pendulum atop it so it won't blow away.

Queen of Wands. Gods, you wish you'd known her.

"I'm sorry," you tell the dead girl, and maybe you'd say more but your throat closes up and all that comes out is a sob.

* * *

Dirk's waiting for you just outside the fence. He opens his mouth to say something, and shuts it again when he sees the look on your face.

Good. All you want is for him to hold you, and when you step close enough he does just that. He's warm, and if you press your face hard enough into his chest you can feel his heartbeat even over your own shaky breathing.

"You okay?" When you just nod against him, Dirk sighs and kisses the top of your head. "Jake."

You open your mouth to tell him that yes, you're fine, and instead choke on your words. "It's not fair," you hear yourself murmur, soft and broken and not like you should sound, "It's not fair, Dirk, she was a person, I—she shouldn't've died for this, it's not _fair—_ "

"I know. I know, Jake." He tries to pull you up so he can see your face and you whimper; you can't bear to look up into the mirrored barrier of his shades right now. "It's not fair. It's not your fault."

You understand that.

It still hurts.

"I want to go home," you not-quite-whisper into his shoulder, and you feel him nod.

"Yeah. Let's go home...Jake?"

"Mm."

"I love you, okay? I love you so much."

"I love you too," you echo back. Somehow, that's enough.


End file.
